


Santa Daddy

by raunchyandpaunchy



Category: Canadian Music RPF
Genre: Christmas Crack, Christmas Smut, Crack, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Santa Baby, Santa Kink, Songfic, fragile masculinity, this is just absurd sex comedy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-08
Updated: 2018-12-08
Packaged: 2019-09-14 08:28:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 963
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16909563
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raunchyandpaunchy/pseuds/raunchyandpaunchy
Summary: Michael insists he's only in it for the presents. Mr. Claus knows better.





	Santa Daddy

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Holidays! Please enjoy this Christmas Crack-er - it's completely absurd, tongue-in-cheek sex comedy about Michael Bublé awkwardly confronting his own fragile masculinity and feelings of same-sex attraction while singing to a pervy Santa Claus. Based on his own extremely awkward version of "Santa Baby", and on rinskiroo's prompt of the same name.

Breathe, Michael. It’s fine. You just have to lay on the charm, you’ve done this a million times. Sing him a song, ask for what you want.

_Him._

He was used to seducing women, but men…? No, that wasn’t something he did. He shuddered at the thought. He, Michael Bublé, was a _man_ , one who enjoyed sports and beer and bacon and the company of women. He even had a Playboy subscription, for God’s sake. The idea of being with another man… it didn’t bear thinking about, and whenever the thought surfaced, he pushed it to the back of his mind where it couldn’t bother him.

Until tonight.

He had an audience with the man himself, in his palace on the North Pole. Despite the frigid weather conditions, the palace itself was pleasantly warm, and Mr. Claus had insisted that the entertainment was to perform in little more than tight silk boxers. The outfit was humiliating, and Michael would have turned down the gig, were it not for the obscenely large sum he was promised plus “anything he asked him for”.

As he prepared for his debut on stage, he felt the performer in him come alive. He could do this. _Mr. Claus wants a show? Oh, he’ll get one. And I’ll give him quite the shopping list, too._

He walked on stage, lights illuminating his toned frame. He heard the band play behind him - the bawdy brass instruments providing the backdrop for his own forward requests. In front sat Mr. Claus, assessing him with a wicked smile only partially concealed by his thick, white beard.

Michael swallowed as he raised his mic to his lips.

“ _Santa baby, slip a Rolex under the tree, for me,_ ” Michael crooned, coy and playful. He blushed as Mr. Claus’ eyebrow raised in return. _Oh God, was that too forward? Does he think I’m hitting on him? Better dial it back._ “ _I_ _'ve been an awful good guy, Santa buddy,_ ” he continued, emphasising the last word. _Good. Now he knows we’re just bros, right?_

Mr. Claus appeared not to know, as he eyed Michael up like a Christmas pudding, licking his lips and thrusting forward so Michael could get a good view of the bulge in his trousers. Michael’s face turned as scarlet as Mr. Claus’ suit as he soldiered on, focusing on the lyrics.

“ _Santa buddy, a ‘65 convertible too, steel blue,_ ” Michael sang. _Steel blue was obviously the manliest colour - there was no mistaking that, surely._ Just in case, Michael continued, “ _I_ _'ll wait up for you, dude._ ”

Mr. Claus only seemed to smirk in response to Michael’s attempts at self-preservation, biting his lip and unbuttoning his jacket as he watched him perform. The discomfort he felt was raw and aggressive, and for some reason caused him to stir in his boxers. _Great. Now Mr. Claus was gonna think he had the hots for him..._

“ _Think of all the fun I've missed, I think of all the hotties that I never kissed…_ ” sang Michael, realising too late that “hotties” didn’t imply women as much as he thought it did. Ordinarily he would have backing dancers to rely on; props, of a sort. Tonight, Mr. Claus had insisted it was to be Michael and Michael alone. Now, as the old man winked at him, he understood why. He continued singing, his next lines about believing in Mr. Claus coming across more sultry than he had intended.

“ _Santa pally, I wanna yacht and really that's not a lot,_ ” Michael belted, backpedalling furiously. _Pally. This is purely platonic. Guys being pals. No other way to take that._ He strode further across the stage. “ _I_ _'ve been a sweetie all year._ ” _Wait, that didn’t sound as masculine as it did in my head._

The heat on the stage was stifling. Michael’s body dripped with sweat, his face flushed. The strain in his boxers hadn’t lessened any, either. Mr. Claus had went from viewing Michael with mild curiosity to straight-up eye banging him. _Shit, how do I let him know I’m not into dudes?_

" _Santa buddy, fill my stocking with Canucks tix, for kicks,_ ” Michael sang confidently. _Sports tickets! Perfect. No non-straight guy enjoyed ice hockey. Short of saying he wanted tits down the chimney, Michael couldn’t be clearer._ He grinned, crooning, “ _Throw me on the first line_.” Only when Mr. Claus’ eyes glinted wickedly in response did he realise the hideous double entendre. _Throw me there for the love of the sport or to get ravaged by the hot, burly players?_ _No, stop thinking about that. “Santa Baby, so hurry down the chimney tonight…” Oh fuck, why am I calling him baby?! And asking him to hurry down the fucking chimney?_

Michael was a hot mess and he knew it, his hair stuck to his head in a sheen of sweat, rivulets of it running down his toned frame. Mr. Claus didn’t appear to mind, now having dropped any attempt at subtlety and fondling himself through his trousers.

It was make or break time, now. Sweat-soaked and shameless, Michael sang the refrain, asking for Christmas decorations from Mercedes - _that would look bomb as shit_ , he thought, trying to ignore how needy he sounded when delivering the following lines.

“ _Santa poppy, forgot to mention one little thing, cha-ching_ .” Michael hadn’t intended the pet name, but it had crept out, and it made his already crimson blush deepen further. He locked eyes with Mr. Claus, watching as the older man stroked his cock languidly, licking his lip and gripping the arm of his chair. He was transfixed, unable to look away. Suddenly, he realised exactly what it was he wanted for Christmas this year.  
  
“ _So hurry down the chimney tonight, Hurry down the chimney tonight, Oh, hurry down the chimney tonight._ ”


End file.
